


Causing Chaos

by wolfern



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Comedy, Crack, Everyone is Crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 12:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19853428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfern/pseuds/wolfern
Summary: Threeshot. Trilogy? After a mission, Alex visits Brecons Beacons once more. Chaos ensues. Previously posted to ffnet in 2010





	1. One of a kind

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to ffnet s/6347067 but now moving my favourite fics over to ao3.

Alex walked into the Royal and General, dripping with water and wearing a scowl on his face. How he _hated_ missions in tropical places. Sure, the sapphire blue seas and golden beaches were nice, but after getting bitten by swarms of insects and forced to swim between hoards of jellyfish, Alex no longer found himself excited at the prospect of going to an exotic location for a mission. No, it was the good old snow, wind, and ice that did it for him.

As he continued to the lifts, he was greeted by the receptionist who had been working there long enough to realise that he had a right to be there. She smiled at him and pressed the button that would send the lifts down to him.

Alex walked into Blunt's office, placed the report he had written of his latest mission on the desk, and sat down in the chair facing the two heads, trying not to get the chair too wet, not that he cared. In fact, it might actually teach them a lesson: Never send Alex to tropical places.

Blunt scanned the report quickly and gave Alex one of his rare smiles of pride and approval. Over time, Alex had gotten close to his two bosses, especially since Jack had died. They had provided him with a place to stay and tutors when he had been kicked out of school. He suspected that they knew about Tom's knowledge of his 'job', but he never mentioned it as he didn't want to sound ungrateful for their leniency in allowing Tom to know without having to sign The Official Secrecy Act.

After the obligatory enquiry of his wellbeing and praises on his clean and efficient achievement, Blunt put the file down and started talking. "Today, the Sergeant of Brecon Beacons called us. It seems his recruits are getting lazy and believe they have…" a slight pause, "…seen it all. He requested an agent that could wake them up as well as give them an insight into having a job with Special Operations. We believe you would be suitable for this task, as you are very experienced with guns and MI6. You have also gone through many things that most normally would not. The seminar is planned for today at 1200 hours. Transport is provided. Do you accept?"

Alex thought for a moment, pondering the task. Then, after a few moments of comfortable silence, he replied. "Yes."

"Very well," Blunt said and leaned back. "You may go now."

Alex looked at the time, saw he had just enough time to get changed, and walked out the door.

"The soldiers are going to have a very big surprise," Mrs Jones finally said, and Alan Blunt allowed a small smile to grace his face and nodded. 

* * *

Alex walked out of the bank wearing some black combat pants, a black long sleeved shirt, a black windcheater and the dog tags he wore whenever he wasn't on a mission. He'd had a shower, but hadn't been able to get the dye out of his hair, so it was black with green tips. Damn Smithers for his permanent hair dye! He also hadn't had enough time to go down to Smithers, so he had a pierced ear, with an earring that would explode if he didn't remove it properly. He looked around, found the official black army jeep that would take him to the place he had trained for a week in and started walking towards it. He smirked when he caught sight of his reflection in the tinted glass. Even if the soldiers didn't listen, he could still teach them not to judge a book by its cover when they were lectured by a teen dressed like an emo. 

* * *

The new recruits looked up as a teen with badly died black hair with green tips and a pierced ear burst through the door. They looked even more confused as he was greeted by the veteran soldiers, such as K Unit and started looking angry when he made his way up to where the guest speakers were. Alex found his seat near the edge of the podium and sat down. He was beginning to think this would be fun.

The other guest speakers looked at him for a moment in confusion, but dismissed him when they noticed that the Sergeant was still introducing them all. "…Agent Black from MI5 who will talk to you about how to deal with civilians and Agent Rider, who will end this seminar with a lecture on guns and working undercover."

At this, many of the soldiers and guest speakers who hadn't met Alex before looked shocked. They all wondered why a kid would be giving them a speech on guns when he probably wasn't even out of school yet. However, the swallowed their protests when the Sergeant gave Alex a smile and sat down.

After an hour of mind numbing speeches by the other speakers, Alex stood up and walked to the lectern. He had used the time wisely, mentally writing his speech and daydreaming about food. He cleared his throat and began. "The most commonly used gun among soldiers is…"

* * *

After he had given a detailed speech on guns, Alex looked around and noticed that most of the men in the hall were sitting stunned by his knowledge. Or bored out of their minds. He decided not to think too hard about which it was.

Deciding to use their stupor to his advantage, he decided to have a little fun, and whispered confidentially, "And of course, the most important thing, spoken by the renowned Agent Moody himself, is…"

The soldiers leaned forwards to hear these softly spoken words of wisdom.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" Alex yelled into the microphone.

He smiled gleefully at their alarmed expressions, stifling his laughter as 'Agent Black' whipped out his gun, eyes wide with shock. All his Spy Stoicism failed him, however, when the Sergeant pointed his rifle at Agent Black upon noticing Black's gun.

Ah, the sweet joys of causing chaos.


	2. Round 2

Alex was getting some much need rest, when Blunt called him in again. Really, the man needed a name change. Something like Grey or Manipulating-Guy would be suitable.

“It seems your lecture made quite the impact, so the Sergeant has requested your presence once teach them basic combat,” the man told him.

Alex smirked. Another chance to beat up guys with superiority complexes? Sure! “When am I going?” he asked, smirking while he thought of what to teach them.

“As soon as you can pack, you can leave,” replied Blunt.

As he had last time, Alex left the office with a swish and a flick of his angelic blond hair.

* * *

It was another cold and miserable day at Brecon Beacons, and the soldiers were eating lunch, when the Sergeant stood up.

“Men, Agent Rider is coming back to give a demonstration in combat. You have five minutes to finish your lunches and make your way to the fighting hall. I expect you to treat him with respect.”

The men all glanced at each other, wondering what a mere kid could teach them in fighting, but followed the Sergeant’s orders. He hadn’t been put in that position for nothing.

* * *

Five minutes later, the fighting hall was packed. The men waited in silence, for the emo-boy to enter. As the doors swung open slowly, the room quieted expectantly as they saw the Sergeant being followed by someone small.

Craning their heads, they stared at the stranger, expecting to see a dark kid with stringy black hair and many piercings like before. Instead, they were treated to the sight of an angelic looking boy of about 15 years, blond hair shining in the non-existent sun and freshly scrubbed, pink skin that glowed in the light of the non-existent sun. They looked at each other. Why didn’t _they_ get a non-existent sun?

Not realising that spies are generally good at disguises, they didn’t cotton on to the fact that it was still Cub, but he had just had a shower after some fitness training, and had also removed all traces of his disguise from his last mission. He had also put on the soldier uniform that he rarely wore because of his job needing him to fit in.

In all, he came across as a namby-pamby soft nancy who had never seen _real_ blood in his life, except for in movies and on the first-aid videos he was shown at his ‘exclusive private school’.

* * *

While the soldiers were wondering when ‘Cub’ was going to show up, Alex and the Sergeant had reached the front of the room. The Sergeant glared at the soldiers for not paying attention and cleared his throat. They immediately jumped, reaching for their guns, blushing when they realised there was no threat. Alex raised an eyebrow. _This_ was Britain’s Elite?

“Men, this is Cub. He gave you a lecture on guns a few weeks ago. Listen to him and follow all his orders.” With that, he left Alex’s side, going to the side of the room to observe.

Alex wondered what would have happened if he had ordered the soldiers to give themselves wedgies. They would have had to do as he said because the Sergeant had ordered them to.....

“Okay,” he started, “The first thing you should know is to keep it simple. Your enemy won’t care if you can twirl around like Lucius Malfoy in _A Very Potter Sequel_ ; your main goal is to just incapacitate them so you can finish your mission. One of the most useful moves you can do is the Squirrel Move. Has anyone heard of it?”

No-one moved. Alex could see that most were questioning his sanity.

“Right. It seems none of you have, so I’d like to demonstrate it for you. Would anyone like to volunteer?”

A soldier, eager to knock down the kid, raised his hand quickly. His name was Boar and he was one of the best fighters in the ranks.

“You there. Boar. Come here then.” Alex smirked and the eyes of those watching widened indiscernibly. How did this kid know their names?

Unfortunately for Boar, he was too dense to notice Alex’s feral grin and walked up, smiling smugly at the thought of showing the kid how _real men_ fought.

“On the count of three, I’d like you to try your best to knock me to the ground. I shall try to do the same to you, using only the Squirrel Move. Good luck,” Alex said, and moved into a fighting position.

“One –”

If the room was silent before, it was dead silent now. You could hear a pin drop. Alex wondered if any of the soldiers could sew.

“Two –”

The soldiers leaned forwards in anticipation, their eyes comically enlarged, as if by making them bigger they could see better.

“THREE!”

Immediately, Boar sprang into action, like a… well, a boar. He lunged at Alex, who quickly spun out of the way. Alex stood up straight, flashed a smile to a non-existent camera (how come _we_ don’t get non-existent cameras, whined the soldiers), and swung his foot into the man’s balls. Needless to say, he went down quickly.

Turning to the soldiers who were wincing in shock and sympathy for Boar, he continued. “The Squirrel Move is named for its easy-to-remember technique – all you have to do is go for the nuts.”

He smirked, spun 180 degrees, and left the room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I take no credit for the creation of The Squirrel Move - that brilliant idea comes from Ensign's "The Innocence of Guilt" (ffnet)


	3. Third Time Unlucky

Once again, Alex had been _requested_ by his superior superiors to bestow his magnificent and munificent presence upon the soldiers at Brecon Beacons. Alex wondered if this was maybe a flimsy attempt at relieving their guilt by giving him an occasional break (other than from his unauthorised running off and hiding in Greece with Tom during summer), while at the same time satisfying their Head of Spy Agency tendencies and deluding themselves that they were making him keep useful. Or perhaps he was getting this the wrong way around; _he_ was the entertainment, not they.

This time, Alex had been investigating posed as a Russian transfer student in a private, very fancy, _very_ expensive, boys’ boarding school in Scotland. Thus when he presented himself to the Sergeant, his hair had been slicked back in a not-quite side part, and he wore pressed grey slacks, a white starched-and-ironed shirt, black morning coat and waistcoat, a tie, and – this was the icing on the gourmet cake – pointy shoes and a top hat. A remnant from his escape, he wore an artist’s smock and carried a small pot of blue paint. Needless to say, the Sergeant (completely unprofessional, in Alex’s humble opinion) didn’t bother hiding his amusement, and laughed openly. It was such a terrifying sight that Alex couldn’t help but check the man’s forehead for fever. Having sobered, the Sergeant briskly directed Alex to one of the lecture halls, telling him to put his new education to good use and teach the men something they didn’t know.

Alex trudged off begrudgingly.

The hall seemed to be mainly filled with the dregs of the SAS, those who had finished lunch late had been unable to find a free firing range or fighting hall, and so were told to come to Alex’s lecture for something useful to do . Alex met their disbelieving and, frankly, rather insulting stares with a viciously pointed one of his own, and asked what they didn’t know.

The men held their blank expressions with fortitude and shrugged, disinterested and, dare he say it, _un_ interested.

Alex felt a glimmer of respect for all his old teachers for putting up with the general apathy from teenagers in a classroom. “You must not know _something_ ,” he cried.

A relatively new recruit slumping carelessly in his chair cocked his head at Alex, daring his attention. Warily, Alex nodded towards him, suspicious when a slow smirk spread over the recruit’s angular face.

“Well,” the recruit began, flicking his sparkling gaze around his comrades, “there are many things we _know_ we know.” The men chuckled appreciatively. They knew where this was going. “And,” the recruit began scrutinising his nails, “there are very few things we _know_ we _don’t_ know.”

His comrades nodded solemnly, suppressing their obvious urge to giggle. Alex was not amused.

The recruit was yet to finish. “It’s rather pointless, if you’ll excuse me, _sir_ , to ask us what we _don’t know_ … Because we have so little that we know we don’t know that all that’s left is what we don’t know we don’t know and _that_ , sir, is impossible for us to elucidate.”

The men broke into scattered applause. One of them whistled.

Alex cleared his throat. “If you have so little you know you don’t know, then clearly you haven’t worked hard enough to _elucidate_ what you do know you don’t know, and if you don’t know what you don’t know, then you can’t know how much you do know or don’t know, and you can’t know, _sir_ , what’s impossible for you to know. And _that_ , sir, is a grievous state of affairs, don’t you know?”

Silence. “I know, right?” the recruit shot back lamely. No whistles this time.

“Now,” Alex huffed. “Anyone else have any ideas?”

More shrugging, and everyone seemed to find something interesting to look at, anywhere but at him. The corner of the doorframe seemed to warrant particular fascination.

Alex frowned. He pointed to the last man to look away, another new recruit on the opposite side of the room. “You there.”

The man glanced up from his inspection of his friend’s mud-stained knees, and looked around for someone else to save him from this crazy boy in a suit, simultaneously mentally kicking himself for not being as active as he could have been in examining the intricacies of mud splatter.

Alex was merciless. “Say what you don’t know. Rather,” he continued, flippantly, “say, What _don’t_ you know?”

White-faced, his eyes wide like Madagascar’s Mort (except that the man was much brawnier), the man hesitated and then vomited his words. “Um, well, I-s’pose-we-need-more-covert-tactic-simulations!” He closed his mouth, squeezing his lips together as if to mimic the wide-mouthed-turned-small-mouthed frog.

And then it was Alex’s turn to freeze, as he realised he now had to teach the men. He’d gotten so caught up in making them answer that he’d forgotten his ultimate mission. He stalled for time by nodding sternly and slowly. “Thank you.”

Maybe it was the suit he was wearing, or maybe it was that the FFSAS reminded him so strongly of school, but whatever the reason, Alex was struck by inspiration from his most recent maths teacher, who’d loved to present problems to the class. The professor had eventually given them a problem none of them had solved without the use of the school’s free wifi, and had involved locking them in a cupboard until they used logic to figure out whether they were wearing hats or not the next day, and…

Alex shook himself back on track. He’d have to tweak the scenario so there were no gnomes, of course, but he was ready. “Right,” he said to the group, “You’ve been captured by this group and you’re sitting in your cell together.”

“That’s stupid,” muttered a soldier, “it makes it so much easier to plan our escape.”

“Shush!” shushed Alex. “Tomorrow they’re going to execute you with their traditional method of justice and mercy. They’re going to line you up, shortest to tallest, and put caps on you. The caps are either red or blue, and who gets what colour is random.”

“Fiddlesticks,” said another soldier, “I like red. If they gave me a blue cap I’d give them kittens.”

The other soldiers shushed him.

Alex continued, pleased with their apparent interest. “You can see all the hats in front of you, but not behind you or your own. They ask you in turn, beginning from the back, what colour hat you’re wearing, and you can only answer ‘red’ or ‘blue’. No signalling each other or anything. If the colour you say is incorrect, they shoot you. Otherwise, you go free.”

“What kind of messed up group _is_ this?” scowled a soldier with wide-set eyes and a fierce scowl.

Levelling them with a steady look, Alex delivered his question. “What do you plan the night before?”

Whispering ensued between the soldiers, each of them shooting Alex a calculating glare every so often. The aforementioned spy sat back on his heels, smugly proud of his conundrum.

Eventually, a weedy looking fellow with a ferret-look about him spoke up over the whispers. “We plan how to survive?”

“Yes, but what _is_ your plan?” Alex huffed, rolling his eyes.

The man shrugged.

Alex closed his eyes and lifted his face to the heavens to beg forgiveness for whatever he had done to deserve this. Was teaching the soldiers to go for a man’s precious bits last time too much?

Meanwhile, the soldiers had returned to whispering, progressed to muttering, murmuring, and were now evolved into a full-blown debate with a chairman and secretary. Tense glares were levelled across the oval oak table which had appeared from the Sergeant’s office, and was now bestrewn with blueprints, notes and swatches for cloths, and a book on colour theory.

The soldiers seemed to have divided into three factions. Two were fiercely arguing, one of them red-faced and growling, the other sneering with crossed-arms and snide comments. The third group was mainly huddled together, and gesticulating quietly, some soldiers on the periphery watching the other arguments, frowning.

As Alex stood stupefied, a man who seemed to be the head of the red-faced bunch slammed his fist on the table. “You can’t handle the truth!” he bellowed.

The sneering group flinched backwards with a hiss. Their leader, a man with a long face and heavy lids curled his upper lip. “Well then, _Pig_ , why don’t you tell our esteemed leader your plan, and see how he grades you?”

Pig paused. Then he straightened up, planted his feet widely and took a deep breath. “Fine. I will.” He turned to Alex.

Alex raised his eyebrows inquiringly.

“Sir, we have a plan.”

Alex nodded.

Pig remained silent.

Alex remained silent.

The room remained silent.

Alex realised Pig was waiting for a verbal response. He coughed. “Continue, soldier.”

Pig’s face cleared. “So the hats are distributed randomly – yes?” (Alex nodded). “That means, according to probability, half the hats should be blue and half red, so if every man just says the same colour (chosen arbitrarily), then in all probability, half will go free.”

Back in the boarding school, another student had suggested this as a plan. The teacher’s response had been scathing, but Alex decided to be kinder. He smiled. Kindly. “Remember, probability is not set in stone. Randomness is less likely to mimic probabilities when you only have thirteen men. It could randomly turn out that everyone is wearing red. At best, all your men go free.”

Pig beamed. Happily.

“But, soldier, at worst, all your men die because everyone is wearing… blue.”

Pig slumped and sidled back to his group who welcomed him with open arms and engulfed him into their midst. Together, they muttered something about the end of innocence and the darkness of the blonde ponce’s heart, whispering condolences to their true, wise friend called Pig.

Alex surveyed the rest of the soldiers. “Have any of you got any better ideas?”

More fevered buzzing from the remaining two groups; Pig’s was fanning him and patting his back.

Eventually, the man who had invited Pig to put forward his plan stepped forward, still sneering.

Alex nodded. “Yes…?”

“Skink.”

“Yes, Skink?” Alex decided to humour him.

“The plan is that every second man – starting from the first – says the colour of the soldier’s hat in front of him. The man in front now knows the colour of his hat. So he gets it correct.” Skink rocked back on his heels with an expression of smugness, hurling another sneer towards Pig.

“Hmm…” Alex pretended to give the plan some thought, watching Skink inflate in triumph. “At worst, soldier, half your men die... all those who were _sacrificed_ to save the man in front. Not a very good plan, is it?”

Skink deflated like a balloon, leaving him limp and slightly wrinkled. His group slithered towards him and drew him back, frowning at Alex as though he should have felt guiltier. Alex shrugged to himself; this was getting fun.

He decided to give them a hint. “You have to be logical. Think as if you were computers.”

The soldiers looked at him askance.

“In _binary_ ,” he told them. It was a terrible clue, but maybe it would motivate them to think of something.

Tentatively, a man with a small mouth from Pig’s group raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“Sir, Frog, sir. Reporting for duty, sir…” He fidgeted, clearly wondering if he should add another ‘sir’ for good measure.

Alex raised a bemused eyebrow.

“Sir, what if the man at the back looks at all the hats in front of him? Then, he says whichever colour is most predominant. Then, everyone says that colour. Then, at worst half die. But then, you said a half-half ratio was unlikely. So then, it’s likely that more than half would go free. Sir.”

No-one had thought of this at the boarding school. Then again, these men actually seemed to be trying. “Well done,” Alex said, “it’s not the answer, but it’s on the right track with the counting. Remember, _binary._ ”

As if to himself, Skink muttered, “But this is red and blue; binary is one and zero, what a silly…”

Alex couldn’t help but answer. “ _Exactly!_ Words are squiggles on paper with no meanings, bar those with which our imaginations clothe them. Squiggles or noises. It depends whether you’re writing or talking, colouring or counting, but they’re the same, really…” he trailed off, fascinated with his own tangent.

The final group, which had been silent up until now, gave a collective jump, as though a spotlight, rather than a light bulb, had lit up above their heads. As one, they surged towards Alex, with one man at the forefront. “Sir, we think we have the answer,” they gushed.

“The night before,” began their spokesperson, the others interjecting as necessary, “‘red’ (or ‘blue’; it doesn’t really matter which) is given the additional meaning of ‘odd (or even) number of red (or blue) hats’. Then, the next day, the man at the back counts the number of red (or blue) hats. If it is odd, he says ‘red’ (or ‘blue’) and if it is even he says ‘blue’ (or ‘red’). Then the man in front of him counts the number of red (or blue) hats. If the number has not changed from odd to even (or even to odd), then he knows he is wearing blue (or red) and says the correct colour. Otherwise, he knows he is one of the red (or blue) hats counted and thus says ‘red’ (or ‘blue’). Each man goes through the same process, logically, so that at best everyone lives and at worst only one soldier dies, assuming everyone counts correctly.”

Silence followed their announcement much like the silence after a dramatic musical piece.

Alex continued the atmosphere and clapped his hands. “Eureka, he’s – they’ve – got it!”

The group erupted into a mass of cheers, some of them whistling loudly, as Pig’s and Skink’s respective groups dissolved into tears. Taking advantage of the hullabaloo, Alex escaped out of the room. He wondered when they would notice the blue he’d painted on the Sergeant’s forehead, ostensibly checking for fever.

* * *

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
